


Growing Up in Bree

by Judayre



Series: Boarding Houses and Smithies [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Female Bilbo, Multi, extras, while I'm thinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-08 22:48:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Judayre/pseuds/Judayre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snippets of the childhoods of Bell and Thorin's children from <i>Boarding</i>, along with any other bits that don't fit in the main narrative that I feel the need to put to figurative paper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Origin of Dwobbits

**Author's Note:**

> While I consider which of at least three possible effects Gandalf will have, enjoy some twins.

It was a universally accepted truth that twins were trouble. There was just something about having two together that made even the most staid family background explode into pranks and mischief. It didn't matter if the twins were girls, boys, or one of each, identical or fraternal; twins were trouble.

(Dís once commented that since that was the case, she was glad there were five years between her hooligans. They just grinned at her, hugged her between them, and went to plot.)

Frerin and Bungo were no exception. They were cheerful boys, and eager to please, but if there was a mud puddle, they would play in it. If there was a tree, they would climb it. If there was a string, they would pull it.

They were long lads; Thorin predicted they would reach at least four foot three by the time they were fully grown, a very good height for a Hobbit, and not bad for a Dwarf either. They had black curls that were left to grow shaggy and had braids put in so tight they didn't come out no matter what state they were in at the end of the day. They had small, turned up noses - the better for smelling mischief, Bell said - and pale blue eyes that sparkled.

Bungo's favorite color was green, and Frerin was happiest in purple, and that was the easiest way to tell them apart. If they were trying to trick others about which was which, they would wear red, brown, blue, anything else; but they would not switch green and purple.

It seemed the only thing they disagreed on, though. They spent every waking moment together, and shared a bed from the time they were in the nursery. They did their lessons together, often matching answers even when their teachers knew they had done the work separately. They played together, and even if they couldn't put up with anyone else, they were always enough for one another. They worked together, doing their chores around Bag End, helping at the smithy, practicing all their myriad skills.

When they were five, they ate their mother's cherry pie and Mister Bombur's cream puffs and declared they wanted to be cooks. They followed the two around for a week, managing to be more help than harm, before they tired of that life goal.

When they were seven, cousin Kíli said they were finally allowed to ride on their own and the decided they wanted to work with animals. They shadowed him at the stable for most of a month, currying and cleaning with good will, before they were on to the next perfect profession.

A circus came to town, and they were transfixed. Their mother worried that they would stow away in the carts and disappear, and she pulled them into her arms and made them promise not to. The juggling ability they gained during the week of the circus' stay was one they put to things like cleaning and dishes, and it made their mother throw her hands up and declare them worse than Brandybucks.

There was a scribe in Bree named Ori, just a little older than their cousins, and he was hired to teach them reading and writing in both Westron and Khuzdul. When they were eight, they saw him working on copying a manuscript, putting the gilding on an illuminated letter at the top of the page. They were in awe, and held him as the most wonderful person in the world for two whole months, during which they practiced their writing and drawing so assiduously that everyone thought they must be up to something.

Shortly after they decided to be carpenters, they used up their ink in drawing on each other, so they could have tattoos like Uncle Dwalin. He laughed and said he would see it properly done when they were old enough. They didn't understand what their mother meant when she said she should have turned him out the first day she met him.

At ten, they were large enough to help at the forge, and nothing would do but for them to become smiths like their father. He set them to work pumping the bellows, and taught them to twist pulled wire into nets and fences. They translated that to string and yarn, and made elaborate cat's cradles and ornate knitted clothes.

They weren't content to learn to fight with swords. Every time they saw a new weapon they had to learn it. By the time they were thirteen, they knew at least the basics for using swords, axes, pikes, slings, bows, bolas, knives (both at close range and throwing). Ori's older brother Nori had taught them to use a garrote and how to hide weapons so they wouldn't be found.

When Thorin looked up to see two brightly expectant faces, he was only a little nervous.

"Father, we want to be Rangers," Frerin said. "Hobbit Rangers."

Bungo frowned. "Dwarf Rangers," he countered.

Frerin frowned in return. "Half Dwarf Rangers," he conceded.

"Dwarf Hobbit Rangers?"

They considered a moment longer, then looked at Thorin and asked "Dwobbit Rangers?"

He laughed and pulled them close. "Dwobbits it is," he agreed. They could put all their skills together while wheedling at the Rangers for however long this held their interest, and likely add tracking and knot tying to their repertoire.


	2. How to Start Courting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dwalin's type is "well covered and a little fussy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, I'm not neglecting _Boarding_. It's just that I kind of need to get a handle on most of the rest of the story before I go on. (Anyone who wants to have possibilities babbled at them, please send me a comment.)
> 
> I did say it wasn't just going to be the kids.

People looked at Dwalin and thought they knew who he was. Granted, many of their judgments were true. He was strong, and fierce. He could tear arms out of sockets (although that was harder than it was worth most of the time, and he had his axes if arms needed to be removed). He could drink with the best of them, and enjoyed a scrap or a brawl.

None of that meant that he couldn't have a sweet tooth (indeed, Bombur had made a friend for life the first time he made a batch of honey cakes in Bree). Far from thinking with his muscles, Dwalin was literate and quite well read. He was from an ancillary branch of the line of Durin that was close enough to the main one that it was expected. Balin always made fun of his writing, but he had always thought that the meanings behind the words should mean more than the shape of them. He wrote too fast for beauty.

And that, of course, didn't mean that he had no sense of beauty. He did a lot of the small, fine work at the forge. And when Bell decided to redecorate, it was Dwalin who helped her choose colors and patterns. And it was Dwalin who painted the glittering cavern and bright forest on the walls of the room Chalcedony was moved into when the nursery went to her brothers.

Dwalin was incredibly weak to Thorin's wife and children. He would do any task Bell asked of him without question, and he would spend all day playing with the children, if it were possible. More than one of the Hobbit boarders had laughed to see him sitting on the floor playing at having tea with Chalcedony and her dolls. The boys begged him to be the ogre of their playtime stories, and he would let them leap at him, climb on him, pretend to stab him, and cheer as he fell over 'dead.'

This was how he found himself bringing the children to their first lessons so their parents could have a moment to themselves before the day started. Really, only Chalce was old enough, but the two year old twins had begged and cried so much that they had gotten their way. He was to ask Ori if he minded watching the boys as well, and give the extra tuitions.

With a boy riding in each shoulder, and the girl cradled to his hip, Dwalin's only plan was a short conversation with Ori and then a good long day of work at the forge.

It was not Ori who opened the door. The Dwarf was clearly related. His hair was a similar ginger color where it hadn't faded to silver. It was braided intricately and tightly, and framed a face that was broad and round. Pale blue eyes were neither intimidated by Dwalin nor impressed by him. He was rounded and firm, and all of Dwalin's words rushed out of his head.

"Mister Dori!" Chalce cried happily, drawing the Dwarf's attention. He seemed to only then realize how covered in children Dwalin was, and his eyes crinkled with his smile.

Dwalin followed him inside in a daze, and in that daze managed to have the necessary conversation with Ori and give him the extra money. And then, in the hour he was alone at the shop, he took the wire and twisted together hairclips and ear clips and rings. Most of them he frowned at and tossed into the pile of non commissions to take to the market. But by the time everything came alive around him, he was pleased with what he had made.

Thorin saw the rejects and smirked at him, causing Dwalin to scowl at him in return. After the way he had teased his friend and cousin about Bell, it was useless to even think that this would go unnoticed. And as Dwalin wasn't one to take on impossible battles, he didn't bother to try warning Thorin off.

He offered to take the children to lessons again the next morning and saw the wheels turning in Thorin's head.  
"Dwalin," he hissed, "he's hardly older than Fíli."

"I am not paying court to Ori," Dwalin answered dryly. "Skinny and bookish and _half my age_ has never been my type."

"These are for you," he said when Dori opened the door, and if he had planned an eloquent speech he would have been miserable at himself. As it was, he knew himself well enough to not try practicing.

Dori smiled that slow, pleased smile at him and accepted the ear clips. "Your own work, Mister Dwalin? The boys speak highly of it."

It was Dwalin's turn to smile, his flashing on fast and showing teeth. "You asked about me?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Dori asked after giving what was an obviously appreciative once over.

Dwalin leaned against the door frame, and by the time they had finished talking he was late for work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And by the end of chapter 2 of _Boarding_ it's about ten years later, and they're still courting. Because it's fun, so why would they want to stop?
> 
> When they're being good, Dori will come to Bag End and they'll sit and have tea in the parlor.
> 
> And when they want to be... less proper, Dori makes sure the apartment is empty and Dwalin comes over.


	3. The Runes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ori can read moon runes.

A more exciting thing had never happened to Ori. His hands shook slightly as he picked up the map Thorin had left behind and examined it for the tell tale signs of moon runes. Everything was there, just as the blacksmith-king had said, and Ori did a little dance before getting his tools.

The creation of moon runes was a secret zealously guarded by the scribes that knew how to do it. Ori was lucky to have had his apprenticeship with Balin, who knew all the old ways. He hadn't been allowed to progress to journeyman status until he could successfully read any secret message his master cared to write him in his carefully tended and hidden silver pens.

Ori locked the apartment, because it wouldn't do to let anyone see what he was up to. He set the map carefully to the side while he set up. The main piece looked like a box with a glass top. Inside, there were rows of light stones that would glow at a touch. They could imitate light coming from any quadrant of the sky. He pulled out the thin, black cloth that worked to brighten or dim the lights to match the brightness of moon phases and the blue and yellow filters that mimicked seasons.

Moon runes were an amazing invention. They could be in plain sight, giving huge amounts of information, but no one would know unless it was night - the correct night. But as he had mentioned to Thorin, that cut both ways. Runes that could be seen any night were hardly hidden, and ones tied to specific days could become impossible to read.

So the scribes had created this tool to ad what was hidden. After all, the writer of the code should have a short cut. Ori had spent hours with Balin's light box, finding treasure marks on maps, reading secret histories of Khazad-dum, discovering lost prophecies about Durin's line and the rings of power.

But now. Now, he would get to read something his master had not seen before him. He laid the map on the box and smoothed it carefully, putting two pieces of scratch paper to one side. On one, he would note down what he learned about the moon needed to read the runes. The other would get the translation. Quivering with his excitement, Ori tapped the first light and got started.

A waning crescent moon on midsummer. Who was supposed to read this? And as for the message, Durin's Day? He quickly calculated the next three Durin's Days and shook his head. What good was a secret door that could only be opened one evening every twenty years? And that didn't even take the thrush into account. What if there was no thrush on Durin's Day? Would the door remain hidden?

Ori shook his head at the foolishness of whoever had created the magic for the door. It must not have been the scribe who recorded the instructions. He or she would have come up with something far more sensible and useful. Map that could rarely be read indeed.

Once the tools were cleaned and put away in their case, he got out a felted roll of cloth to wrap the map and translation in. As he set the translation between the two layers of cloth, he noted that the next Durin's Day was that very year. Whatever Thorin had wanted it for, he would have to move quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My wife allows me to ramble to her about my writing on occasion. Ori's light box is actually her idea. I just had to run with it.
> 
> Ori also has many of the thoughts on the map and the door that I do. Seriously, the entire thing is impractical. Although I suppose if you just want it as an escape route you should be fine....


	4. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dís had to stay behind.

Dís was more than three weeks without word. Not from her brother, of course. Every night they spent in a town or house of Men, he left a note and a coin to make sure it got to her. She couldn't send anything back, because they were continually moving, but that was not her concern.

They were traveling leisurely, the notes said, and her boys were a big help. She expected nothing else, and so soon into the trip, there was no subtext to the messages. There would be hugs sent to the girls; sometimes ribbons, once pretty spoons. And that was it.

Dís had left the apartment she'd been living in for the past fourteen years. She and the girls had moved her things into Bag End and, with Calce's help, she was running the boarding house. Calce did a lot of the cooking, and Lily had been doing cleaning and washing for years, so Dís had a lot of time on her hands.

She made sure the girls continued their lessons, both academic and martial. She even picked up a few of the students Thorin and Ori had left behind, teaching swordplay and Khuzdul well enough for the children who wanted to know about their heritage.

She also took most care of Pearl. The toddler was the only one who didn't understand what had happened, and she had several bad nights until she got used to the new set up. Fíli and Kíli had always slept in their own cribs, and she knew all of Thorin's were the same, but sleeping with the child warm in her arms seemed the only way to calm her some nights. Dís didn't begrudge her own lost sleep.

Amber was the second one to climb into bed with her aunt. She was just old enough to understand what Bell and Thorin were up to, and had pressed harder at her sword lessons since they left, and harder still once they realized the twins were missing. After a week, the little firecracker needed the assurance that someone would still be there, even if it came to the worst.

Calce was mild tempered. She remained cheerful and smiling, working in the kitchen or at her lessons, working on the mending, playing with a few from Bombur's flock. With the other two and her own worries, it wasn't until Dís found the girl sobbing in her room that she realized Calce was the one who most understood that she might never see parents or brothers again.

Then there were four of them in one bed, but Dís didn't mind. She was worried as well, for her brother and sister, and her sons and nephews, and Dís knew what was out there to be afraid of. Having the girls close gave her something to hold tight to, something that reminded her that no matter what, she would go on.

Finally, nearly a month after the group had gone, Dís received a long letter. She sat in private to read it, wondering how much was being left out for the first time. The group was in Rivendell, and Thorin said that Bofur was going to be fine. Dís was glad, but until that moment she had had no indication that he wasn't.

The twins were with them and safe. And probably continuing with them, which meant they weren't safe at all. They were being punished and run ragged, and they were sorry they worried her and they loved her and their sisters and were sending presents.

Fíli and Kíli had also sent a letter, reassuring her so many times that they were fine that she was scared they were dying. They sent golden necklaces and jeweled combs and didn't tell her where they'd gotten them. They talked about Elves and Wizards, travel and ponies, and said nothing of substance in three pages.

Dís curled her hands into frustrated fists, then smoothed the letter out again. Who knew when she would next hear from her good boys, if she ever would again?

And there was the thing she had been trying to ignore. She had lost her mother to the dragon they were traveling to face, and her husband to bandits on better roads than they would be traveling. She had lost her grandfather and one brother to Orcs, and there would certainly be those in the path. And her father had just vanished. Now her remaining brother and sons were in danger, and there was nothing she could do for them, except to remain and make sure they had something to come home to, if they ever came home again.

She bowed her head, pressed her hands to her eyes, and wept.


	5. This is Going to be a Problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dwalin and Thorin know that Gandalf doesn't have their best interest at heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look! I exist! A month of finding no work makes the Judy very anxious and depressed and that translates into not being able to do much of anything (including being a person that anyone would want to be around). But I have a job interview tomorrow! For a job I applied for yesterday! And it's an awesome job that I would be awesome at! Everyone keep their fingers crossed for me!
> 
> Also, have a thing! I have been mentally writing this for weeks, but any time I opened up google docs (I do my writing on google docs) I just couldn't get anything down (see anxiety and depression).

The boys had gone with Kíli to see to the ponies and Bell was visiting with Bofur before Thorin and Dwalin had a chance to talk.

"I don't trust the wizard," Dwalin said. Thorin snorted and he took that as instruction to continue. "You know, in Rohan they call him Stormcrow. They say that bad things happen when he comes, or that he makes them."

"I have been to Rohan. I know their stories," Thorin said dryly.

"They why have you let him goad you into this?" Dwalin demanded.

Thorin's eyes took on a wistful distance. "They deserve better than they have: my people, my children. They should have the best of everything, something to make them proud of being Dwarves, something to make them proud of their king, of their father."

Dwalin reached out a hand. "They are proud already. You have given them a good life, and they are proud to live it. Your children are proud of you and love you." He saw the slight, deprecating smile that came to Thorin's mouth when he was praised too much, but continued anyway. "You could be blind and deaf and they would do nothing but brag of you."  
Thorin pushed him away. "I know that," he said, sounding as if he might actually believe it.

"Good! Then it's time to go home?"

"No," Thorin answered firmly. "We have started this and we will not give up halfway through."

Dwalin ran a hand over his head as he breathed a sigh. "When people say Dwarves are stubborn they speak of the line of Durin," he muttered.

Thorin's eyes lit with humor. "Of which you are a part, my cousin," he said, laughter in his voice.

"Don't remind me," Dwalin said with a long suffering sigh, but he knew how much despair was already in his friend and let the matter rest. "And the wizard?"

"I know he has his own agenda, but this is a Dwarf's quest and we will undertake it as Dwarves. I will not dance to his tune."

Dwalin did not think it would be that simple, but he pressed one hand to his chest. "Whatever you need of me, you know I am your man."

Thorin clapped him on the shoulder. "I know," he said, voice deep with affection. "Do not confront Tharkûn. Let me deal with him."

Dwalin believed in using offense as a defense, and the request was galling, but he nodded agreement and followed his king to a meeting with Elrond.

"I hear there is a map you want me to look at?" the Elf lord said, and Dwalin turned a glare on the wizard.

"Quite right. Thank you for reminding me."

Gandalf smiled smugly and Dwalin was aghast until Thorin pulled out a familiar map of Eriador and Rhovanion. Elrond's lips twitched when he saw his own home marked on the map with an added note to avoid the Elves.

"That is not the map I meant," the wizard all but growled.

Thorin barely spared him a glance. "That is a secret map only for Dwarves."

"Then how did Mithrandir come by it?" Elrond asked, nothing but curiosity in his voice.

"He got it from my father," Thorin answered. "To give to me."

"There is much we do not know about the map," Gandalf said, moving closer. Dwalin got in the way and stood stoically with his arms crossed.

"There is not," Thorin answered without looking up. He pointed at the mountains. "I has been more than fifteen years since I crossed the Misty Mountains. I'm sure the safe passes have changed since then."

Gandalf glared around Dwalin. "Just because Lord Elrond is an Elf you will refuse to ask his aid?"

This time Thorin looked up, and his eyes snapped with anger. "I am asking him now," he said, voice low and hissing. "And you are getting in the way. The other map - the one you kept for most of a century when you should have given it to me - has no secrets from me. I do not need to ask outsiders to find them. If you have no further advice, I am trying to plan the next stage of our journey."

Dwalin's fingers flexed in his knuckledusters and Gandalf took the hint and left the room. Dwalin determined to keep the wizard away from his cousin for the rest of their stay, because there was a confrontation that needed to happen, but not in the home of their historic enemy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had meant for this to go into Thorin and Gandalf actually having it out, but.... It didn't work that way. Sorry!


	6. The Heart is not Controlled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bell through part of the first chapter.

He was breathtakingly handsome in a way she wouldn't have admired in her childhood among Hobbits, who were round, soft, and smooth. But years in Bree among Men had broadened her horizons. It was all so much easier to appreciate at the proper scale. The Dwarf who had entered her boarding house was tall, true, but no so ridiculously so that he couldn't comfortably enter Bag End. He had a solid, strong build that she admired (wolves would have a hard time devouring _him_ , that was certain), and what no longer looked to her to be hair womanishly long. It was dark, just beginning to be shot through with white, and reminded her of a warm safe place in the woods with sunlight filtering down through the leaves until you could see its rays individually.

And his eyes. She could see in his expression that they could be as cold and unyielding as ice, but right now they were warm and deep as the Water on a lazy summer's day. And just like the Water, if she was not careful she would drown in them.

She forced her mind to business, and it stayed there until he followed her into the kitchen with the dishes and started the washing up as though it was something he did every day. She had had no one in the kitchen with her since her mother's passing, and it made her overly conscious of him. (He washed well, and the fact that he was capable in the kitchen caused another small shiver of attraction.)

It happened again, not often enough for anyone else to notice and comment on it, but enough that she started to pick up on his particular favorites. It wasn't until Bofur teased her lightly (having a brother was fine, wasn't it? She'd never had one before, but caring for a brother was safe, wasn't it?) that she realized that she was making those foods more often than usual.

She panicked, alone in her rooms deep under the hill Bag End was built into. The last time she'd cooked specifically to please someone she'd been courting. She'd been in love. But she couldn't do that again. Thorin Thráinson was only in Bree until autumn and there was no knowing if he would be back again. He was there to make money for his family - oh, she knew the family in question was sister and nephews, but that wasn't the _point_ \- not to pay court to damaged spinsters. (She wasn't far past 33, so she couldn't count as a spinster, but she had thought of herself that way since the time she was 21.)

No, she had to stop this. She couldn't be in love with Thorin-- and she certainly couldn't think of him by name. It wasn't safe to love. She had loved her parents and they were dead. She had loved her Rory and he was dead. She had loved her name but she couldn't stand to hear anyone say it. She had loved the Shire but she couldn't stay there. She _couldn't_ love again. There was nowhere left to run.

She became more distant. He noticed, of course, but he was polite enough not too mention it. She congratulated herself on it. Now everything would be fine. She wasn't in love and didn't have to worry.

The first time he wasn't home in time for supper she knew it for the lie it was. She stayed up waiting for him, one ear cocked for the door even as she changed to a nightdress and gown. Everything that could have happened filled her mind. There could have been an accident at the forge. There could have been a fire in one of the other buildings. He could have encountered an angry customer. Or a thief. He could have been run down by a panicked horse.

The sight of him in the doorway made her almost too weak to stand, and she knew it was too late to save herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bell... has some issues.


	7. Calce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Calce is the first Dwobbit, and not always certain of what that means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is likely a combination of two different things that have been going through my brain, and I'm not entirely certain it works. Nevertheless, here it is!

Calcedony was born the first of her kind; the first mixture of two disparate races and cultures. She was the apple of her mother's eye and the jewel of her father's heart, the hope of Dwarves.

She didn't stay the only one for long, as the twins came hardly more than a year later, and within a few more years there was Amber. And by the time Amber came, there were other Dwobbits running the streets of Bree to join them. The children of Belladonna and Thorin seemed to show the main variations that these new children caught between worlds fell into.

Calce blended Dwarf and Hobbit characteristics fairly evenly. Her ears were delicately pointed, but less so than her mother's. Her feet were more delicate - in winter, she wore boots. She was likely to be taller than a typical Hobbit woman, but still probably short for a Dwarf. Her hair was light, but not with the springy curls most Hobbits got. Her features were delicate for a Dwarf, but she had her father's long nose.

Mixtures like Calce were rare. Far more common were ones like the twins. They had features of each parent seemingly at random. Rounded ears, sturdy, hairy feet, snub noses, curly hair. They would probably have the height and strong build of Dwarves.

Amber looked from infancy like a normal Hobbit baby.

But personalities were far harder to classify in most cases. For all that Amber was as fierce as a Dwarf warrior from the time she began to toddle, most were far less straightforward. Bell and Thorin constantly argued over where the twins' mischief came from, and Calce's calm.

Calce herself didn't understand the arguments. She cultivated her calm by watching her family. She watched as her mother dealt with tenants who didn't want to pay, face set and unmoving. She watched as her father discussed the safety of Bree with other craftsmen, bandits on the roads getting the same reaction out of him as the fire in the forge not burning hot enough. 

She watched as her cousin Fíli dealt with pickpockets and drunks, not responding to taunts or bribes. She watched her cousin Kíli tend his horses, voice low and soothing.

She watched her uncle Dwalin face people in the market who tried to charge too much, his brows drawn down and his arms crossed but not offering any violence. She watched her aunt Dís deal with the Dwarf boys who tugged the tips of her ears and the Hobbit girls who giggled behind their hands at her boots.

Her family were the calm ones, and it was something she had to struggle to achieve. Her heart wanted to dance and tumble through the brightness of the summer, to sing out the joy of autumn, to wrap around the silence of winter and burst to life again with the spring. She had what she learned was a Hobbit's joy of nature and the world around her with a Dwarf's depth of feeling.

She learned her weapons and letters, but Amber wanted her sword more than Calce ever would, and the twins were creating secret codes and sending private messages long after she put her books away for the night. Calce wanted to create, and again, she found that this was something both sides of her heritage gave her.

She heard Hobbit farmers speak of their crops and Dwarf craftsmen of their chosen craft with the love of a parent. She saw Ori bent over a manuscript for hours until his back was hunched and his eyes were dry and stinging, a smile never leaving his lips. She smelled the food that came out of Hobbit owned inns and Bombur's bakery made with all the devotion of their hearts.

When Calce was fourteen, she showed signs of being a fine seamstress. She did her own dying because she could never seem to find _just the right_ shade. She knit socks and mittens, hats and scarves, sweaters and blankets. She sewed shirts, pants, coats, vests, bodices. She embroidered flowers and runes with equal skill. Her needles were flashing things, moving with surety in daylight and candlelight, sometimes until her mother had to take them away from her.

She made them presents when they were gone. It was the only thing that kept her sane some days.

For Ori, her teacher, she took out fine, brown yarn and thin needles. "May my pen never lie" was knitted into the cuffs of the gloves she made him, only a shade darker so it wasn't a distraction. The body of the gloves had quills shaped into them.

Nori often did things she wasn't supposed to know about, but being calm and quiet meant she knew any number of things she wasn't supposed to. She made him a hooded cowl of thick, gray yarn. Into it - and she had to research and copy pictures out until she was certain she had them correct - she cabled knots for luck and success.

Uncle Dwalin liked fine things more than he would ever admit. She had a bolt of cambric that she felt was too fine to dye, and she made him a shirt out of it, embroidering his victories in deep red and the wonder she felt in knowing him in the color of a clear sky.

Dori was always with uncle Dwalin, and she knew their gifts had to go together. But she didn't have his measurements and couldn't make him a shirt. She made him a blanket in the end, dark red with images of her favorite stories picked out in blue and white. She hoped he'd like it. He told stories as well as Ori.

For Bifur she made gloves and a scarf, black and white like his hair. The scarf was long enough to easily share one end of, as he had often shared with her when she was young and had forgotten her own.

She made uncle Bofur a bag. She used strong canvas and there were pockets of all sizes on the inside and outside. The clasp cost a week's pocket money, and even then she was sure she had been given a discount for being Thorin's daughter. Still, she wouldn't complain, and she sewed the clasp firmly in place.

Frerin and Bungo, her wild brothers who had run after adventure. She knitted them caps and gloves in purple and green, decorating them with the intricate cables they had designed themselves.

For Mother, a new spring shawl. She had greatly admired a long bolt of cloth Calce had dyed. It was a shimmering color, part a spring green, part honey gold, shifting with the light. Calce was proud of it and had held onto it for months, unsure what to do with it. She cut a large section and embroidered white flowers across it and angular patterns around the edges.

Father, then, had to have the rest of the cloth. She made him a light jacket to match, white embroidery picking up the collar and cuffs.

Kíli got a jacket as well, a warm one made of pale blue wool with horses all over it.

For Fíli she made a little of everything. Socks and gloves, a hat and scarf. Dark yellow, brown, touches of red and purple. Figures, not cabling, in repeating geometric shapes.

She worked on everything for months, stealing every moment she could find. She poured all her energy into it, working each stitch until it was as perfect as she could make it. And when she was done, she hid it all in the glory box uncle Bofur had made her and tried to pretend they weren't there.


End file.
